“You—you got no right to spend my money,” said Bealby.
“I—’Ang it!—I’ll get you some acid drops,” said the tramp in tones of remonstrance. “I tell you, blame you,—it’s ‘Erbert Samuel.’ I can’t ’elp it! I can’t fight against the lor.”
“You haven’t any right to spend my money,” said Bealby.
“Downt cut up crusty. ’Ow can I ’elp it?”
“I’ll tell a policeman. You gimme back my money and lemme go.”
The tramp considered the social atmosphere. It did not contain a policeman. It contained nothing but a peaceful kindly corner public house, a sleeping dog and the back of an elderly man digging.
The tramp approached Bealby in a confidential manner. “’Oo’s going to believe you?” he said. “And besides, ’ow did you come by it?
“Moreover, I ain’t going to spend your money. I got money of my own. ’Ere! See?” And suddenly before the dazzled eyes of Bealby he held and instantly withdrew three shillings and two coppers that seemed familiar. He had had a shilling of his own....
Bealby waited outside....
The tramp emerged in a highly genial mood, with acid drops, and a short clay pipe going strong. “’Ere,” he said to Bealby with just the faintest flavour of magnificence over the teeth-held pipe and handed over not only the acid drops but a virgin short clay. “Fill,” he said, proffering the tobacco. “It’s yours jus’ much as it’s mine. Be’r not let ’Erbert Samuel see you, though; that’s all. ’E’s got a lor abart it.”